ARCHAEOLOGISTS DO THAT, TOO ?

As  I  have  explained  elsewhere  in  this  blog,  I  am  a  member  of  a  worldwide  organization  of  archaeological  amateurs,  called  the  Epigraphic  Society.    It  has  enabled  me  to  participate  in  many  adventures.

Very  early  on  in  my  involvement  in  the  organization,  maybe  in  1986,  another  New  Jersey  member  told  me  how  the  mountainside  on  Mount  Kittatinny,  the  New  Jersey  side  of  the  Delaware  Water  Gap ...

... is  covered  with  thousands  of  feet  of  interesting  stone  walls.  Thinking  that  I  might  explore  the  walls,  I  asked  young  Andy  Park  from  Jackson  Avenue  if  he'd  like  to  go  with  me  and  my  2-1/2  year  old  son  Josh,  to  see  what  we  could  see,  up  there.  We  brought   a  Radio  Flyer  wagon  with  which  to  pull  Josh  up  mountain  roads,  to  stretch  his  endurance.

We  were  up  in  remote  woods.  There  weren't  any  homes  or  people  for  miles  around.     So,  we   peed  in  the  woods.  I  did  this  in  front  of  Josh,  so  that  he  would  do  likewise,  rather  than  souse  his  britches.    Josh  was  deeply  impressed   by  this  process.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  there  weren't  toilets  literally  everywhere,  just  waiting  for  us  to  feel  the  urge ...

Suddenly,  it  made  sense.

After  a  very  successful  day  of  mountain  climbing  and  archaeological  exploration,   we  came  home.   It  happened  to  be  the  day  of  Keith  Hohing's  annual  Jackson  Avenue  block  party,     when  his  band  played  very  cool  classic  rock  songs,    while  the  entire  neighborhood  contributed  hamburgers,  hot  dogs,  condiments  and  desserts  to  the  affair.

My  wife  Rise`  had  some  chore  to  run  for  the  New  Jersey  Bureau  of  Parole  that  afternoon,  and  so  she  asked  me  to  take  Josh  with  me,  when  I  put  in  my  appearance  at  the  block  party,  and  so  I  did.

Late  in  the  afternoon,    I  was  talking  to   Melody,  who  lived  on  the  corner  where  Tim  and  Beth  Concannon   live  now,  in  front  of  one  of  the  neighbors'  houses   (I  won't  say  whose).  As  I  conversed  with  Melody,  I   heard  some  people  in  the  background  burst  out laughing,  and  then   everyone  --  about  200  people  --  started  laughing  and  pointing  toward  the  neighbor's  house,   and  then  Melody  started  laughing   and  turned  me  around  and  said,  "Pete,  look  in  that  back  yard."

There  was  Josh,   turned  toward  the  neighbor's  house,  britches  around  his  ankles,  peeing  against  the  wall.

Oh  my  heavens !    I  didn't  tell  him  that  it  was  only  for  remote  places,    when  there  were  no  people  or  potties  around !

THE INCREDIBLE MAGNOLIA BIRD WATCHER

I  belonged  --  and  I  guess  I  still  belong  --   to  a  worldwide  organization  dedicated  to  the  study  of  ancient  inscriptions   called  The  Epigraphic  Society.      Once  I  drove  down  to  the  the  woods  just  north  of  the  Potomac  River,  near  Antietam  Battlefied,  to  look   for  an  ancient  inscription  reported  to  be  on  a  boulder  down  there.  As  I  traipsed  through  the  woods  in  search  of  the  inscription,    a  really  big  bird  came  wafting  in  my  direction,  landing  in  a  tree  a  few  feet  above  my  head.  I  looked  up,  and  saw  that  amazingly  it   appeared  to  be  an  ivory-billed  woodpecker,    thought   by  many  to  be  extinct.   

I  stood  still   to  avoid  frightening  the  bird  away,  so  that  I  could  hear  its  distinctive  call  (which  I  later  learned  is  called  the  "kent  call"   by  ornithologists).     And  then  I  heard  it ...

kent ... kent ... kent ... kent ...

I  actually  got  to  see  one  of  the  last  ivory  bill  woodpeckers  in  existence.  

I  told  a  group  of  ornithologists  I  came  across  in  the  woods  that  day  about  my  find.  They  didn't  believe  me.     I  wrote  to  the  author  of  a  magazine  article   on  the  ivory  billed  woodpecker  about  my  find.  No  response.   

Heh-heh-heh  HEH  heh!



My  bird  encounters  weren't  limited  to  the  woods  of  Maryland.  A  few  occurred  right  here  in   exotic  Magnolia,  New  Jersey.

One  late  Fall  morning  in  the  1980s  I  was  on  my  way  out  to  my  car  to  represent  someone  in  court.     The  air  was  very  still,  and  snow  flurries  were  coming  down.    I  heard  some  rustling   in  the  leaves  to  my  left.  There,  in  my  front  yard  to  my  left,  inside  my  fence,  was  the  biggest  pheasant   I  had  ever  seen.

I  took  a  single   tentative  step  in  its  direction.    The  thing  was  startled.  It  flew  over  the  fence,   landed  in  Warwick  Road,   it   flew  up  into  the  air  again  before  a  car  could  hit  it,  and  made  it  to  the  access  road  to  the  Little  League  ballfield.   I  ran  into   the  house  to  get  my  camera,  a  Pentax  K-1000  SLR,   but  when  I  came  out  the  pheasant  was  gone.

My  next  interesting  ornithological  encounter  was  when  I  was  taking  an  early  morning  walk   before  work  one  Fall  day.    As  I  walked  down   Jackson  Avenue  from  my  house  on  Warwick  Road  toward  Camden  Avenue,    I  saw  that  "Zimmo"  --  my  name  for  Mr.  Zimmerman  on  Jackson  Avenue  at  Camden  Avenue  --  had  left-out  a  large  live  animal  trap  overnight ...

...  and  that  he  had  managed  to   capture  a  groundhog  in  it,    and   perched  on  top  of  the  cage  were  two  huge  bald  eagle  youngsters  --  probably  from  the  Petty's  Island  brood   in  the  Delaware  --  trying  to  figure  out  how  to  get  INTO  the  cage  to  eat  the  groundhog.

I  tiptoed  up  Zimmo's  walk  to  quietly   knock  on  his  door  to  let  him  know  that  he  had  a  wonderful  miracle  of  nature   on  his  lawn  on  the  Camden  Avenue  side  of  the  house.  But  I  guess  it  looked  too  much  like  I  was  stalking  to  the  eagles,  who   flew  away   as  I  reached  Zimmo's  porch.



My  last  and  greatest  ornithological  encounter   occurred  as  I   was  walking  down  Warwick  Road  toward  the  Wawa  store.    When  I  crossed  Madison  Avenue  and  was  in  front  of  Olivo's  house,  I  happened  to  look  left  and  glance  up  to  the  roof  of  Trinity  Lutheran  Church  and  --  there  it  was!    I  couldn't  believe  it!    A  great  horned  owl  on  the  church's  roof,  as  still  as  a  statue,  poised  to   take-down  whatever  prey  it  might  happen  to  see  with  its  sharp  eyes.

I  hurried  home  to  get  my  binoculars  to  get  a  closer  look.   In  short  order,  I  was  out  there  on  Warwick  Road  in  broad  daylight,   my  powerful   binoculars  from  Edmund  Scientific   focused  on  the  mighty  bird.

I  didn't  notice  that  Rose  from   Phillips  Avenue  was  walking  down  the  sidewalk  behind  me.

"Hi,  Pete!"    she  said.  "Why  are  you  looking  at  my  church  with  binoculars?"

"Rose!"   I  answered,  "How  are  you  doing!   This  is  really  incredible!  Trinity  Lutheran  has   a  huge  adult  great  horned  owl  perched  on  its  roof,  probably  looking  for  some  small  animal  to  pounce  on!"

"Uh,  Pete,"  Rose  said  to  me  quietly,   "That's  a  plastic  owl,  for  scaring  away  other  birds."

SAYING BAD WORDS [WARNING: BAD LANGUAGE PRETTY CLEARLY SPELLED-OUT]

There  is  one  circumstance  where,  to  this  day,  I  reserve  to  myself  the  "right"  to  say  bad  words,  and  that  is  when  I  am  driving,  and  another  driver  does  something  stupid  that  almost  causes  an  accident.

My  most  memorable  case  of  this  was  at  an  intersection  in  Haddonfield,  New  Jersey,  years  ago,  who  I  was  returning  from  trying  a  case  in  Superior  Court  in  Camden.

I  was  relaxedly  driving  within  the  speed  limit  south  on  West  End   Avenue  toward  Kings  Highway  in  Haddonfield,  intent  on  making  the  quick  right/left  down  Chews  Landing  Road/Temporary  41   toward  Barrington,  when  I  came  up  to  the  intersection  of  West  End  Avenue  and  Euclid  Street,  where  cars  in  Euclid  must  stop  for  a  stop  sign.

Right  in  front  of  me,  a  car  going  west  on  Euclid  --  from  my  left  to  my  right  --  went  through  his  stop  sign  and  the  driver,  realizing  his  error,  slammed  on  his  brakes,  stopping  dead  in  front  of  my  car  as  I  drove  toward  him.

My  brain  jumped  into  "Emergency  Mode."    I  turned  sharp  right,  driving  up  onto  the   sidewalk  on  the  southwest  corner  of   West  End  Avenue  and  Euclid,  to  avoid  killing  the  other  driver.   My  car's  undercarriage  slammed  into  the  curb  there  with  a  terrifying  bang.  Sparks  flew.

My  car's  momentum  carried  me  into  Euclid,  toward  oncoming  traffic  there.

Again,   my  brain  jumped  into  "Emergency  Mode."    I  turned  hard  left,  jumped  the   southern  curb  of  Euclid  Avenue,    and  rode  my  car  up  the  front  lawn  of  the  house  with  the  open  porch  there,  to  avoid  killing  someone   in   the  oncoming  traffic  on  Euclid.  My  bumper   ju-u-u-ust   touched  the  front   porch   of  the  house  there.

I  was  shaking  with  fear  and  anger,  as  I  sat  in  the  driver's  seat  of  my  car.  I  decided  not  to  get  out,  for  fear  of  punching  that  idiot  on  Euclid  Avenue  who  went  through  the  stop  sign,  and  getting  myself  arrested.

Instead,  I  turned  left  in  my  seat,  and  looked  at  the  other  driver   through  the  window.    He  turned  left  and  looked  at  me.

THE  OTHER  DRIVER  WAS  THE  SUPERIOR  COURT  JUDGE  PRESIDING  IN  THE  TRIAL   I  HAD  JUST  FINISHED  IN  CAMDEN !!!

I  didn't  give  a  damn.  I  was  so  angry,    I  looked  at  him  with  all  of  the  evil  of  Hell   and  mouthed  the  words,  "You  f - - - - - g  stupid  son  of  a   b - - - h !!!"   Ooooooooooh,  was  I  angry !!!

The  judge  meekly  acknowledged  his  fault,  and   drove  off.



Aside  from  such  instances,  I  have   done  my  best  to  control  the   "evil  tongued"  aspect  of  my  personality.

I  did  it  by  awarding  to  my  children,  and  then  to  the  little  Vietnamese  girl   whom  we  babysat  on  weekends,  the  right  to  collect  a  dollar  from  me   for  every  bad  word   that  came  out  of  my  mouth.    This    motivated  them  to  monitor  my  speech  for  bad  words  with  incredible  alacrity.  It  was  more  profitable  then  allowance.

Pete  drops  a  glass  drying  dishes,  and  it  splatters  everywhere.    "Ah,  s - - t!"    I  would  exclaim.

"$1,  Dad!"

Pete  stubs  his  right  baby  toe  going  into  the  kids'  room  to  do  prayers  and  story  before  bed,  and  there's  blood  all  over.  Pete  says, "Ooooooooooooooh,    F - - k!"

TWO  boys  each  say,  "$1,  Dad."

I'm  coming  out  of  a  Shoprite  food  store  with  little  Nhu,  my  Vietnamese  "daughter,"    and  I  see  that  some  idiot  driver,  parked  next  to  me,  has   made  a  very  big  ding  in  the  driver  side  door.    ""S - - t!"  I  exclaim.

"You  owe  me  a  dollar,  Mr.  Peter!"  would  be  her  enthusiastic  response.

"Damn!"  I  would  comment.

"$2,  Mr.  Peter!"  she  would  triumphantly  counter.



The  really  interesting  episode  connected  with   bad  language  was  as  follows.

All  three  of  my  sons  went  to  Our  Lady  of  Grace  Catholic  Regional  School  in  Somerdale,  New  Jersey.  The  nuns  and  lay  teachers  there  prepared  our  sons  for  the  receipt  of  the  sacraments.  Training  for  the  Sacrament  of  Reconciliation  preceded   all  else,  after  their  Baptism.

The  school  sent  home  an  instruction  to  the  parents,  asking  them  to  help  the  children  examine  their  consciences  for  purpose  of  making  their  First  Confession.

One  of  my  children  --  I  won't  say  who  --  was  "in  a  real  big  sweat"   trying  to  think  of  some  "sin"  that  he  could  confess  in  his  First  Confession.

Finally,  he  said  to  me,  "Dad,  is  saying  bad  words   a  sin?"

I answered,  "Yes."

He  said,  "GOOD!"

All  of  a  sudden,  he  had  the  "ammunition"  he  needed  to  get  though  his  First  Confession.

And  he  gave  his  First  Confession  to  Father  Bob  Cairone  at  St.  Gregory's.

And  Fr.  Cairone  said,  "Pete,  he  did  fine!"

METEORITES SLAMMING INTO MAGNOLIA

In  March,  1982,  my  wife  Rise`  and  I  moved  into  Magnolia,    into  the  Myers'  Dutch  colonial  on  Warwick  Road  at  Jackson  Avenue,  across  Warwick  Road  from  the  driveway  leading  down  to  the  Little  League  Ballfield  and  to  Vaughn  Heating  &  Air  Conditioning.

In  the  years  that  followed,    my  main  exercise  was  long  night-time  walks  through  Magnolia,   sometimes  even  in  the  rain,   when  I  would  do  all  of  my  thinking  about  cases  I  was  working  on  in  my  law  practice.

Around  11:30  p.m.  on  one  heavily   overcast,  drizzly  night,  after  the  Cumberland  Farms  store  on  Evesham  Road,  at  the  railroad  tracks,  became  One  Stop  Shop,  I  was  walking   north  up  the  sidewalk   on  the  residence  side  of  Southeast  Atlantic  Avenue,  from   Monroe  Avenue  toward  Evesham  Road.   I  happened  to  look  up  toward  One  Stop  Shop   and  I  saw  an  amazing  thing:    A  small  meteorite  making  a  "fshshshsh"  sound   and  leaving  a  tail  of  sparks  broke  through  the  rain  clouds   a  few  hundred  feet  up  and   hit  the  roof  of  One  Stop  Shop  with  a  loud  "pop."

Above,  a  daytime  portrayal  of  the  view  I  had

of  the  One  Stop  Shop  food  store

at  the  moment  the  meteorite  came  down  out  of  the  overcast,  rainy  night  sky

as  I  walked  north  up  SE  Atlantic  Avenue

from  Monroe  Avenue  toward  Evesham  Road.

The  dotted  line  traces  the  path  of  the  meteorite  seen  by  me.

The  next  day,  I  told  the  guy  at  the  cash  register   in  One  Stop  Shop  that  though  the  meteorite  probably  bounced-off  into  someone's  yard,    there  was  a  chance  that  it  was  still  up  there,  on  their  roof.   I  think  that  he  thought  that  I  was  crazy.

Who  knows  --  it  might  still  be  up  there,  right?

That  was  not  my  only  contact  with   meteorites  in  Magnolia.

Our  kids  attended  grade  school  at  Our  Lady  of  Grace  on  the  White  Horse  Pike  in  Somerdale.   For  his  school  science  fair  project,  I  taught  one  of  our  boys  how  to  wrap   a  powerful  bar  magnet  from  Edmund  Scientific  in  a  plastic  bag   and  then  press  it  into  the  dry  dirt  in  our  garden  to  collect  tiny  magnetic  particles   and  then  deposit  the  particles   onto  a  paper  plate.   I  showed  him  how  the  tiniest  magnetic  particles  would  actually  roll   on  the   paper  plate  like  little  marbles,  and  how  these  same  particles,  when  viewed  under  a  microscope,     turned  out  to  be  relatively  perfect  little  spheres.  

A  micrometeorite  made  of  magnetic  iron  or  nickel   molecules  

condensing  together  in  the  upper  atmosphere  

after  a  meteor  captured  by  Earth's  gravity   smashed  into  the  atmosphere,  melted,  vaporized,   and  cooled  so  that  the  metallic  elements  in  the  gas  coalesced  together  
into  the  tiny  ball  shapes  which  we  were  looking  at  under  a  microscope.

Anyone  can  collect  these  from  their  garden  with  a  magnet.

This  is  because  they  were   micrometeorites  made  of  iron  or  nickel   molecules  condensing  together  in  the  upper  atmosphere  after  a  meteor  captured  by  Earth's  gravity   smashed  into  the  atmosphere,  melted,  vaporized,   and  cooled  so  that  the  metallic  elements  in  the  gas  coalesced  together  into  the  tiny  ball  shapes  which  we  were  looking  at.

That  son  collected   a  small  vial  full  of  micrometeorites  with  his  magnet,    and  bolted  it  to  his  explanatory  display  for  the  science  fair.

The  most  interesting  "encounter"  with  a  meteorite  in  the  history  of  Magnolia  may  have  occurred  at  our  home  in  February,  1983.

On  February  10,   1983,  I  was  working  in  my  law  office   in  Medford,  New  Jersey.  My  wife  was  in  Philadelphia,  investigating  one  of  her  parolees  in  her  work  as  a  New  Jersey  State  Parole  Officer.

Some  time  shortly  after  noon,  my  law  office  telephone  rang,  and   I  picked-up.

"Hi,  Pete,"  a  female  voice  said  on  the  other  end.  "This  is  Renee  Albright,  your  next  door  neighbor  on  Warwick  Road.  I  hate  to  tell  you  this,  but  your  house  is  on  fire."

I  laughed  and  said,  "Come  on,  Renee. Why  are  you  really  calling?"

"Pete,"  she  insisted,  "No  joke!   Your  house  is  on  fire!"

I  said,  "WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT???!!!"   and  I  slammed  down  the  telephone  and  ran  out  of  my  office  and  sped  home  in  my  car.

My  wife  was  in  her  car  on  the  Walt  Whitman  Bridge  on  her  way  back  to  the  District  7   Parole  Office.  She  was  listening  to  KYW  Radio  when  she  heard  a  report  about  a  house   on  fire  "on  Warwick  Road  near  Jackson  Avenue   in  Magnolia."   She  made  a  bee  line  for  Magnolia,  and  arrived  there  before  I  did,  and,  lo  and  behold,  it  was  our  house.

I  drove  up  seconds  later,  just  as  the  firemen  were  making  their  entry  into  the  Jackson-Avenue-side  door.  Inevitably,  the  event   oxygenated  the  smoldering  fire  inside,  making  it  explode,  squeezing  heavy  dark  smoke  out  of  all  upstairs  windows,  like  brown  toothpaste,  just  as  our  neighbor  Renee  Albright  was  snapping  her  next  picture.   Our  cat  Inky  bolted  out  the  Jackson  Avenue  door   at  the  same  moment.

After  the  firemen  extinguished  the  blaze,    I  entered  the  house  with  the  Fire  Marshall.  Except  for  some  sections  of  the  roof,  third  floor  ceiling,   and  third  floor  floor,    the  third  floor  was  a  total  burn-out.    The  second  floor  was  burned-out  from  half-way  up  the  walls  to  the  ceilings.     The  rest  of  the  house  was  heavily  smoke  damaged.

The  Fire  Marshall   found  the  "hot  spot"  --  the  probable  point  of  fire  ignition   --   in  Rise`'s  sewing  room  on  the  second  floor,  where  fire  cut  a  deep  hole  in  the  wood  floor  there,  near  an  outlet.

The  Fire  Marshall  saw  a  charred  ironing  board  laying  on  its  side,  and  a  burned-up  iron    lying  in  the  "hot  spot"  hole,    and  wrote  in  his   report  that  a  hot  iron  tumbling  off  the  ironing  board  had  started  the  fire.

I  said,  "How  could  it  have  been   the   iron?     The  only  un-burnt  spot  on  the  top  of  the  ironing  board   is  shaped  like  an  iron.  Clearly,  the  iron  was  face-down  on  the  ironing  board,  but  it  PROTECTED   the  ironing  board  where  it  was  face-down  because  it  was  COLD!  One  of  the  firemen  probably  accidentally  knocked  the  iron  into  the  hot  spot  hole."

"Well,  what's  your  theory?"  he  asked.

"Two  alternatives,"  I  answered.

"First,   my  wife  did  her  sewing  in  this  room.    She's  a  water  drinker.    She  often  kept  a  cup  of  water  on  the  table  here  that  had  her  sewing  machine.    The  foot  pedal  for  the  sewing  machine  was  under  the  right  edge  of  the  table.  It  was  plugged-into  the  outlet  over  there,  where  the  hot  spot  is.  Our  cat  Inky  liked  to  jump-up  on  tables   and  look  out  the  windows  at  the  cars  passing  by.  If  Inky  jumped-up  on  this  table  and  knocked  over  my  wife's  water  and  the  water  landed  on  her  sewing  machine's  foot  pedal,  it  might  have  shorted-out  the  foot  pedal,  causing  it  to  draw   maximum  voltage   from  the   plug  at  the  wall.  If  the  breaker  for  that  line   in  the  basement  didn't  pop  open  because  of  corrosion,    the  wire  in  the  wall  might  have  overheated  and  started  the  fire.

"Second,    I  just  noticed  something."  I  squatted  in  front  of  the  hot  spot  on  the  floor.  "If  you  look  up  from  the  hot  spot  on  the  floor,  you'll  notice   that  it  lines  up  with  a  series  of  holes  through  the   ceiling  of  this  room,  through  the  third  floor  floor,  through  the  third  floor  ceiling,  and  through  the  roof.

How  the  holes  through  the  roof  to  the  hot  spot

were  seen  to  be  lined-up  after  our  house  fire  in  February,  1983.

If  a  meteorite  did  indeed  cause  the  fire,

it  punched  a  hole  in  the  roof,  at  1,

cut  through  the  third  floor  ceiling,   at  2,

punched  through  the  third  floor  floor,  at  3,

cut  through  the  second  floor  ceiling,  at  4,

and  slammed  into  the  hot  spot,  at  5,  setting  it  on  fire.

"It's  as  though  something  came  shooting  out  of  the  sky  and  started  the  fire  right  here,  where  the  hot  spot  is.

"A  red-hot  meteorite?"   I  concluded  with   a  question  mark  in  my  voice.

The  Fire  Marshall  burst  out  laughing  and  said,  "Sorry.  'Hot  iron  tumbling  off  the  ironing  board'   stays.   Your   ideas  are  wild  exercises  of  the  imagination!"

HOW I FOILED A MAGNOLIA AUTO THEFT IN JUST MY FRUIT OF THE LOOMS

For  many  years,  I  represented  a  ne'er-do-well  named  Joseph  Ferrara  in  the  New  Jersey  criminal  justice  system.   Joe  is  dead  now.    He  died  after  making  a  full,  careful,  confession  to  a  Catholic  priest.    Hopefully,  like  the  Good  Thief   Dismas  on  the  cross  next  to  that  of  Christ,  Joe  managed  to  steal  Heaven.

Joe  was  a  fascinating  mix  of  saint  and  sinner,  in  his  life.   Aren't  we  all,  right?   I  know  essentially  why  he  was  a  sinner.    I  won't  reveal  that,  here.      But  I  will  describe  an  incident  in  which   he  tried  without  success  to  have  my  Dodge  Aries  station  wagon  stolen,    years  ago,  at  my  home  in  Magnolia.

One  day,  I was  at  work  in  my  little  law  office  at  home,  pulling  together  evidence  I  would  need  for  night  court  in  the  municipal  court  one  town  over  from  Magnolia.  I  heard  a  knock  at  the  door.    Waiting  there  was  Joseph   Ferrara,  looking  very  "strung  out"  and  seriously  in  need  of  a  fix.

"Pete,"   he  said,  "I  need  $50  for  groceries,  right  now,  this  minute."

I  answered,  "No,  Joe.  I  know  the  look.     You're  in  need  of  a  'hit.'   The  instant  you  get  $50,  you're  going  to  make  a  call,  get  a  ride  to  Gloucester  City,     and  juice-up  on  drugs.   I  can  even  tell  you  what  the  $50's  for.  I  know  'H'  withdrawal  when  I  see  it.  Come  on,  Joe,  if  you're  this  bad,  you're  almost  maxed-out  of  your  withdrawal.  Let  me  call  Police,  and  maybe  they'll  lock  you  up  if  you  tell  them  that  you've  been  using."

"Hey,  Pete,  let  me  come  into  your  house,"  he  said.

"Nope!"  I  responded.  "You'll  case  my  place,  and  I'll  have  to  stay  up  a  week  just  to  keep  from  being  burglarized."

"Come  ON,   Pete,"    he  begged.

"No,"  I  calmly  insisted.  "I'll  buy  you  lunch  which  I  will  watch  you  eat,  Joe,  but  we're  walking  to  the  restaurant.  No  vehicle  for  you,  unless  it's  a  paddy  wagon.     You're  way  too  desperate   to  be  a  passenger  in  a  motor  vehicle."

"Hey,  Pete,"  Joe  responded,  "That  is  a  very  good  looking  station  wagon  you  have  there."

"Hey,  Joe,  thanks!,"  I  said,  with  feigned   naivete,  "I'm  glad  that  you  appreciate  that!"

"I'M  THREATENING  TO  STEAL  YOUR  CAR  WHEN  YOU'RE  NOT  LOOKING,  YOU  IDIOT!"    Joe  yelled  demonically,    annoyed  at  my  feigned  naivete.

I  answered,  "Come  on,  Joe.  Cut  the  crap.    Look  at  you.     Listen  to  what  you  are  saying  to  one  of  the  few  people  on  Earth  who  is  able  to  shake  your  hand  and  call  you  'friend.'  Don't  sell  your  last  friendship  to  the  Devil  for   a  drug  high,  Joe.   That's  the  express  train  to  Hell.  Shake  my  hand,  call  me  'friend,'  and  walk  away,  Joe."

Joe  spat  at  me,  voiced  an  obscenity,  and  left.

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  I  drove  to  American  Battery   and  purchased  The  Club  for  the  steering  wheel  of  each  of  our  cars ...

...  and  locked-up  each  of  the  cars,  and  distributed  keys  to  family  members,  as  they  began   arriving  home  from  work,    and  then  I  left  for  court.   I  then  spent  the  next  7  hours  in  night  court  on  a  protracted  municipal-level  trial,     arriving  home  at  about  1:15  a.m.  on  a  hot  Summer  night.    I  stripped  down  to  my  Fruit-of-the-Looms   downstairs,  and  watched  television,  planning  to  don  my  PJs  when  I  went  upstairs  after  I  began  to  feel  sleepy.

At  1:30  a.m.  I  saw  the  headlights  of  cars  pulling  up  to  the  house  shining  through  the  curtains.  I  peeked  out  and  saw  a  group  of   young  men  standing  around  my  car,  shining  headlights  into  it.     I  listened  carefully  through  the  partially  opened  window  and  heard  one  guy  screaming  at  the  other  guy  that  there  just  wasn't  enough  time  to  "get  that  thing  off  the  steering  wheel."

I  jumped  up   and  dashed  to  the  main   door  of  the  house   and  jumped  from   the  porch  to  the  sidewalk,  dressed  only  in  my  Fruit-of-the-looms,  screaming  something  unearthly.   The  young  men  looked  up,  shocked,  frozen  in  place.

I  heard  Joe  Ferrara  screaming  like  a  madman  from  a  car  on   stopped  on  Warwick  Road,  in  front  of  my  house,  "STEAL  THE  CAR!   GET  THAT  CAR!"

I  yelled,  "JOE  FERRARA,  GET  THE  HELL  OUT  OF  HERE!"

Then  an  idea  jumped  into  my  head:  Thank  him  for  "setting-up"   the  guys  standing  around  my  car,  because  police  were  on  the  way.

But  it  occurred  to  me  that  they  would  respond  by  murdering  Joe,  if  I  shouted  that.

So,  instead,  I  just  turned  to  the  young  men,  and  yelled  as  loud  as  I  could,  "YOU  GET  THE  HELL  OUT  OF  HERE,  TOO!!!    THE  WHOLE  NEIGHBORHOOD  KNOWS  THAT  FERRARA  IS  IN  THAT  CAR,  NOW.  LEAVE  BEFORE  SOMEONE  CALLS  POLICE!!!"

And  they  all  left,  and  that  was  it.

How NOT to Do a Realtor a Favor

Years  ago,  after  the  Vietnamese  couple  living  in  the  house  next  to  ours  separated  and  then  divorced  and  abandoned  the  house,  the  bank  commenced  foreclosure,  and  rolled  the  house  over  to   a  realtor  for  marketing  with  refreshing  quickness.

The  realtor  in  charge  of  the  property  for  the  foreclosing  bank   knew  me,  from  my  law  work.  He  stopped  by  my  house  one  evening  and  asked  me  if  I  had  a  key  to  the  place,  and  I  did.  He  took  it  from  me  and  said,    "Pete,  I'll  return  your  key  to  you,  in  case  you  need  to  get  into  the  house  for  the  bank  if  our  listing  runs  out."

The  following  Saturday,    the  realtor  still  had  not  made   the  copies  or  installed  a  key  lock  box.   He  called  me  around  noon  and  said,  "Pete,  I  was  lazy  and  stupid.  I  was  walking  around  with  the  key  to  the  house  in  my  pocket  all  week  long,  without  making  copies   or  installing  a  lock  box.   When  I  showed  the  house  to  an  interested  party  two  days  ago,    I  accidentally  locked  your  key  on  the  inside  of  the  house.      I  noticed  that  the   latch  on  the window  in  the  back  bedroom  is  broken.  We  could  gain  access   through  there  and  recover  the  key  from  where  I  left  it  in  the  kitchen,  on  the  counter.  Do  you  have  a  ladder  you  could  use  to  go  into  that  window,  recover  the  key  for  me  and  lock  the  place  back  up?   I'll  be  there  very  shortly."

I  thought,  "What  a  harebrain!"  I  answered,  "I'll  do  it,  but  you  owe  my  law  practice  a  referral!"  He  agreed.

So,  I  went  and  got  one  of  my  ladders,    placed  it  against  the  rear  of  the  house,    and  start  climbing  up  the  ladder  to  get  in.

And,  of  course,  one  of  the  new  neighbors  on  the  other  side  of  the  block   looked  out  their  back  window  and  saw  a  "suspicious  male  climbing  into  a  house   with  a  ladder"  and  call ed  911.

And,  of  course,  this,  in  essence,  is  what  the  police  arriving  on  the  scene   got  to  see ...

  
"Ahem,"  one  of  the  police  went.

I  thought,  "Ah  [expletive  deleted]!"

Now,  the  problem  with  my  situation  that  day  was  that  day    --   it  was  a  Saturday,  when  the  "weekenders,"  the  police  from  out-of-town,    were  on  patrol  in  Magnolia  to  supplement  their  regular  incomes.   They  didn't  know  me.

For  all  they  knew,  they  had  caught  a  daylight  burglar,  well,  not  "red-handed,"  but  red-somethinged.

I  said,    "My  name  is  Pete  Dawson.  I  am  the  lawyer  who  lives  next  door.  The  realtor   on  the  'For  Sale'  sign  on  the  front  lawn  is  on  his  way  here  now.    Here  is  my  cell  phone.  Call  him  and  he  will   ID  me   and  tell  you  that  in  fact  he  gave  me  authorization  to  go  into  the  back  window  to  recover  the  house  key  he  accidentally  left  on  the  kitchen  counter."

And,  of  course,  when  the  police  tried  the  realtor's  number,  nobody  answered.

And,  of  course,  the  realtor  never  arrived  as  he  had  promised.

Damn!

I  said,  "Look,  guys,    before  you  cuff  me  and  take  me  in,  get  Dispatch  to  connect  you  with  the  Police  Chief,  Rob  Doyle."

Luckily,  they  agreed.    Rob  had  them  ask  me  two  questions  only  I  would  know  the  answers  to,  and  told  them  what  the  answers  had  to  be.  I  gave  the  correct  answers,  and  I  was  in  the  clear.

The  "weekenders"  crankily  instructed  me  to  "please  call  the  Police  in  advance  before  you  pull  a  stunt  like  that  again."

The  realtor  finally  called  on  my  cell  phone,  just  before  the  police  left,  and  the  "weekenders"  yelled  at  him,  too,  for  being  really  stupid.

The  realtor  asked  me  for  the  name  of  my  favorite  alcoholic   beverage,  to  "make  it  up  to  you."

I  said,   "Ouzo."

And,  of  course,  he  never  brought  me  a  bottle.

And  that   is  the  true  story  of  how  I  was  literally  left   with  my  ass  hanging  out  the  window,  in  Magnolia.

REPUBLICAN VEGGIE PIZZA

I'm  liable  to  get  in  some  trouble  for  telling  this  story.    Please  don't  judge  me  negatively   for  what  I  report  here,  until  you  ask  yourself,  "What  would  I  have  done  in  the  same  circumstances?"

Years  ago  I  was  one  of  the  Republican  councilmen  in  Magnolia.    Then  I  was  the  Republican  Municipal  Chairman.   Then   I  ran  for  Mayor,  very  briefly,  until  my  involvement as  an  attorney  in  a  complex  case  in  Superior  Court  in  Camden  forced  me  out.

Though  I  regard  myself  as  a  conservative  Republican,   I  never  got  along  well   with  the  other  folks  on  our  side.  Politics  was  filled  with  way  too  much  pettiness  and  self-aggrandizing.     I  was  falsely  accused  by  the  Magnolia  Rumor  Mill  of  bedding  a  Republican  Mayor's  daughter.  (Several  Republicans  were.)    The  Republicans  who  got  me  involved  just  wanted  me  to  keep  my  mouth  shut  and  obey  orders  --  something  I  never  did.    When  I  discovered   a  very  subtle  and  non-prosecutable  form  of  indirect  theft   by  our  side,    and  disclosed  it  instantly  to  the  Mayor,     someone  went  and   changed  the  written  record  of  the  vote  I  had  cast  to  block  such  theft  so  that  it  looked  like  I  had  cast  a  vote  in  favor  of  such  theft.  Disgusted,   I  secretly  had   the  Borough  Clerk,  who  was  also  offended  at  the  record  alteration,  let  me  make  a  copy  of  the  TAPE  RECORDING   of  that  session  of  Council,  so  that  I  could  prove  that   the  official  record  had  been  altered.   Someone  --  I  don't  know  who,   but  I  wouldn't  be  surprised   if  it  was  one  of  the  hate-filled  lunatics  on  our  side  of  the  aisle   --   called  my  name  in  to  the  IRS  three  years  in  a  row,  to  use  the  IRS  as  a  tool  of  terror.    I  was   audited  three  years  in  a  row.    After  the  first  year,  I  OVERPAID  MY  TAXES  and  UNDER-REPORTED  MY  DEDUCTIONS  on  purpose,    so  that  the  IRS  would  lose  money  if  I  was  audited  again.    When  that  happened  in  the  second  year,  when  I  was  called-in  for  an  audit  for  the  third  year,    the  auditor  said,  "Are  we  going  to  be  returning  money  to  you  again?"   I  said,  "Yup!"   and  they  shook  my  hand  and  told  me  to  go  home.  "Somebody  hates  you,"  the  auditor  said.

Ultimately,  I  was  glad  to  get  out  of  politics.    Like  my  Dad  always  said,  "Pete,  politics  is  evil  in  motion."     He  was  right.

While  I  was  the  Republican  Chairman,  my  wife  would  help  me  throw  pre-election  events   by  making  one  of  everyone's  favorite  treats,  veggie  pizza.

My  wife  Rise`  would  spread  crescent  roll  dough  flat  on  a  cookie  sheet,  bake  it,  spread   a  cream  cheese  concoction  over  it,    and  then  spread  a  variety   of  nutritious  cut-up  vegetables  across  the  cream  cheese.

On  one  occasion,   Rise`  had   just  spread   the  cream   cheese  over  the  baked  dough.  The  uncovered   cream-cheese-covered  pizza    and  the   uncovered  cream-cheese-mix   mixing  bowl  were  next  to  each  other,  when  the  mail  came  and  Rise`  and  I  were  distracted  by  sorting  through  the  mail  on  the  other  side  of  the  kitchen.

Now  we  had  a  cat  in  those  days  --  an  extremely  intelligent  black-and-white  cat  named  Inky.

Inky  simply  NEVER  misbehaved,  except  on  this  one  particular  day.  When  we  turned  from  the  mail  and  looked  back  toward  the  veggie  pizza,  there  was  Inky  on  the  counter,     next  to  the  veggie  pizza  and  cream  cheese  bowl,  with  cream  cheese  on  her  mouth.

Rise`  and  I  both  thought  exactly  the  same  thing:  "Oh,  no!    Where  did  Inky  lick   cream  cheese?     In  the  bowl,  or  on  the  cheese  pizza  itself?"  We  looked  hard,  but  we  couldn't  see  a  distinct  point  of  disturbance  on  either  the  pizza  or  bowl.  "What  should  we  do?"  we  wondered.

Then  Rise  and  I   looked  at  each  other,  and  each  burst  out  laughing  at  the  other's  thoughts.

Bad Luck Turtle

My  wife  and  I  babysat  the  little  girl  of  the  Vietnamese  couple  who  lived  next  to  us,   from  mid  2004  to  mid  2009.   The  little  girl's  name  was  Lesle  Nhu  Kieu.    I  really  did  come  to  view  that  kid  as  a  kind  of  adopted  daughter.  I  loved  her  like  crazy,   and  genuinely  would  have  given  my  life  for  her's,  as  much  as  I  would  give  my  life  for  my  sons'  lives.

One  Friday  afternoon  in  early  2008,  I  picked   little  Nhu  up  at  Magnolia  Public  School   in  my  car,  even  though  I  live  a  block  away  from  the  school,   because  I  was  taking  her  to  Camden  County  Library.

As  we  drove  down  Warwick  Road  past  our  house,   little  Nhu  shouted,  "MR.  PETER!  MR.  PETER!   THERE'S  A  TURTLE  WALKING  ON  THE  SIDEWALK  IN  FRONT  OF  YOUR  WARWICK  ROAD  DOOR!"

I  drove  around  the  block  and  parked  next  to  my  house,  and  ran  around  to  the  front  door  of  my  house  with  little  Nhu.  Sure  enough,  there  on  the  sidewalk  between  my  front  door  and  the  Warwick  Road  sidewalk  was  a  great,  big,  bright   Eastern  Box  Turtle,  Terrapene carolina carolina   under  the  binomial  nomenclature  system  of  genus,  species  and  subspecies  classification ...

"Mr.  Peter,"  little  Nhu  said  to  me  with  a  serious  face,    "This  is  very  bad!    The  turtle  is  walking  away  from  your  house!  In  Vietnam  that  means  that  you  are  about  to  have  very  bad  luck!"

I  did  not  even  know  that  we  had  turtles,  there  on  busy  Warwick  Road.  Where  had  the  animal  come  from?   In  any  event,  little  Nhu  and  I  took  the  turtle  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  house  and  released  it  into  my  wife  Rise`'s  garden.     To  my  surprise,  the  turtle  immediately  began  to   dig  into  the  ground,  as  though  to  construct  a  new  dwelling  for  itself.

Eminently  satisfied  that  we  had  done  our  good  deed  for  Nature,  little  Nhu  asked  if  I  could  let  her  into  her  house  so  that  she  could  change  into  more  comfortable  clothes   for  our  anticipated  trip  to  the  library.   So,  we   went  next  door,  and  while  I  waited  in  the  living  room,  little  Nhu  went  back  to  her  bedroom  and  changed.  Nhu  yelled  to  me  from  her  bedroom,  as  she  changed,  "I  WONDER  WHAT  BAD  LUCK  YOU'RE  GOING  TO  HAVE,  BECAUSE  THAT  TURTLE  WAS  WALKING  AWAY  FROM  YOUR  HOUSE,  MR.  PETER!"

At  that  moment,  as  though  on  cue,    there  was  a  knock  at  little  Nhu's  front  door.     It  was  my  oldest  son  Josh.

"Dad,"   Josh  asked,  "Didn't  you  feel   the  ground  shaking  or  hear  the  big  bang?"

"No,  Josh,"  I  said,    "I  heard  nothing."

"Where's  Lesle,  Dad?   You  two  have  to  come  to  our  house  immediately!"

"She's  in  her  bedroom  changing  her  clothes,  Josh.  What's  up?"  I  asked,  getting  worried.

"Dad,"  Josh  explained,  "The  giant  oak  tree  in  front  of  our  house  just  split  in  half,  and  the  half  closest  to  our  house  just  fell  and  slammed  against  the  front  of  the  house  and  damaged  it,  all  over  the  place.   It's  really  bad!   Lesle!  Hurry  up  and  change  so  that  Dad  can  come  home!"

Little  Nhu  came  out,  her  clothes  changed,  but  carrying  her  socks  and  sneakers.  "Well,"  little  Nhu  said,  "There  it  is,  Mr.  Peter!     Your  bad  luck!"   She  pulled  on  her  socks  and  sneakers   and  we  ran  over  to  my  house. 

The  tree  had  split  down  the  center,  vertically,    and  the  half  which  had  fallen  had  smashed  the  front  of  our  house  at  several  places.   The  half  which  had  not  yet  fallen  was  leaning  precariously over  the  rancher  of  our  neighbor  on  Warwick  Road,  Barbara  Cheeseman,    and  would  clearly  crush  her  house  in  short  order.

I  went  over  to  Mrs.  Cheeseman's  house,  and  discovered  that  she  already  had  a  argument  in  her  holster  to  avoid  paying  for  half  of  the  cost  of  tree  removal.  "You'd  better   pay  to  have  your  tree  removed,  Peter  Dawson,    before  it  crushes  my  house,  or  I'll  have  a  lawyer  sue  you!"

I  answered,  "Barbara,  how  are  you  doing?  Listen,  Barbara,    the  trunk  of  that  tree   lies  dead  center  on  the  border  between  our  properties.  The  half  of  it  which  had  been   on  our  side  of  the  border  is  now  leaning  against  the  front  of  my  house.    The  half  of  it  which  is  on  your  side  of  the  property   hasn't  moved,    but  it's  obviously  going  to  fall  onto  your  house  and  crush  it  very  shortly.  A  little  breeze,  or  a  light  rain  adding  a  few  thousand  pounds  of  water  weight  to  the  tree,  will  bring  it  down."

"NO!"   Barbara  insisted  angrily,  "THE  TREE  IS  100%   ON  YOUR  SIDE  OF  THE  BORDER  LINE  BETWEEN  OUR  PROPERTIES!  IT'S  YOUR  RESPONSIBILITY!"

I  answered,  with  kindness,  "Listen  Barbara,  I'll  tell  you  what.  Of  course,  since  I  am  a  lawyer,  I  have  several  friends   who  are  lawyers.    Since  you  say  that  the  tree  is  100%   on  my  side  of  the  boundary   line  between  our  properties,  if  I  have  one  of  those  lawyers  draw  up  new  deeds  to  your  property  and  my  property   with  a  boundary  line   100%  on  your  side  of  the  tree  trunk,    you'll  sign  it  then,  right?    If  you  are  correct,    and  the  tree,  right  now,  is  100%  of  my  side  of  the  boundary  line,    you  won't  lose  anything,  right?  But  if  I'm  right,  I'm  about  to  become  the  owner  of  additional  several  hundred  square  feet  of  your  property,  right?"

THIS  "smoked-out"  Barbara  from   her   initial  position  immediately.

"But  I  can't  AFFORD  to  pay   for  my  half  of  the  tree,  Pete!"  she  pleaded,  "I  just  don't  have  the  money!  Won't  your  insurance  company  cover  it?"

I  responded,  "Insurance  companies  are  hair-splitters,  Barbara,  especially  since   9/11,   the  Enron  Scandal,  the  Dot  Com  Scandal,    Hurricane  Katrina  and  losses  on  those  things  called  'derivatives.'   The  companies  are  going  broke  and  looking  for  ways  to  avoid  liability.  Odds  are  that  my  insurance  company  is  going  to  pay  for  only  half  of  the  cost  of  tree  removal.  And  since  no  'accident'  has  occurred  involving  your  half  of  the  tree,  yet,  your  insurance  company  will  probably  respond  by  denying  liability   for  any  loss  which  you  might  have  to  suffer  on  collapse  of  your  half  of  the  tree,    due  to  'improper  maintenance'  --  NOT  removing  a  damaged  tree  --  by  you.     Let  me  talk  to  Rise`  and  I'll  get  back  to  you."

My  wife  Rise`  and  I  talked  about  it,  and  we  decided  to  promise  to  Mrs.  Cheeseman  that  we  would  cover   the  cost  of  removal  of  Mrs.  Cheeseman's  half  of  the  tree,  too,  out-of-pocket.

No  good  deed  goes  unpunished.    Our  "reward"  for  our  charity  to  Mrs.  Cheeseman  was  that  she  stopped  talking  to  us,  so  long  as  she  lived  next  to  us,  I  guessed  because  of  anger  that  I  called  her  bluff   about  not  actually  owning  half  of  the  tree.  Bad  luck  from  the  turtle   had  struck  again!

Was  the  turtle  done  with  us,  yet?

I  told  my  family  about  the  amazing  coincidence  of  little  Nhu's  interpretation  of  the  turtle's  direction  of  walk,  and  the  collapse  of  the  tree  a  half  hour  later.     "Probably,"  I  suggested,  "The  turtle  was  living  beneath  the  tree,  and  heard  the  tree  begin  to  split  in  half,  and  was  making  his  escape.  But,  still,  little  Nhu's  guess  was  pretty  amazing!"

We  went  out  to  the  garden  and  looked  for  the  turtle,   as  we  waited  outside  for  the  tree  surgeon,  Cameron  Lyon  of  Lyon  &  Son  Tree  Service,  to  come  and  give  us  an  estimate  for  tree  removal  the  next  day.  

The  turtle  was  already  hopelessly  out  of  reach,  having  buried  itself  deep  in  our  garden  on  the  side  of  the  house  --  or  so  we  thought.

That  night,    as  we  sat  in  our  family  room  talking  about  the  collapse,    we  heard  a  "klunk"  in  the  dining  room  wall  next  to  the  garden  where  the  turtle  had  dug  in.  Apparently,    it  was  getting  close  to  turtle  hibernation  time,  and  the  turtle  had  somehow  worked  its  way   through  an  open  section  of  the  foundation   underground  up  into  the  warmth  of  our  dining  room  wall,  near  the  forced-air  heating  conduit  in  the  wall!   We  heard  the  damnable  thing  "klunking"  in  the  wall  a  few  times  each  day,  all  Winter  long,  as  it  changed  position!

That  was  it;  the  turtle  was  through  with  us,  right?

We  aren't  sure.     The  next  day,  Cameron  Lyon  came  with  his  trucks  to  take  down  and  haul  away  both  sides  of  the  giant  oak  tree ...

A  few  years  later,  in  2013,  poor  Cameron  Lyon  died  in  a  fall  from  a  tall  tree  being  trimmed  by   his  business  in  Haddonfield.

Our  turtle  "friend"  returns  to  the  wall  every  Winter,  now,    clunking   its  way  up  through  the  wall  to  hibernate.